That moment you ended your first piece, I knew, you’re broken. She broke you into pieces.
You seem whole and fixed when you show that smile to everyone.
You seem so strong, so firm to your beliefs, yet we both know you’re struggling.
I’m not Superman. I’m not your knight in shining armor. I’m not an angel who can carry you under its wings.
I can’t save you from distress.
That moment you touched me, I knew, you’re broken, shattered, lonely…
You’re naked on paper yet you hide behind your words. Words so strong, so intimidating.
You’re not used to standing in front of us yet you fit the stage so well, burning with passion, stunning.
I’m not romanticizing anything. I won’t give you sugarcoated shit and honey. I can’t give you morphine to shut you off.
I can’t show you a shining, shimmering, splendid world.
That moment I saw your scars, I knew what I wanted.
Yes, they have healed as you move on, wake up every day just like yesterday, trying to keep the norms.
Then you told me the story how you got them. I wanted to hear some more but I knew it would just make those scars bleed again.
I tell you Ms. Scissorhands, this is what I’ve always been thinking of.
I want to take your hand, and walk with you in this miserable planet of misfortunes.
I want to wrap my arms around you just enough to keep you warm and let you breathe.
I want to cook soup in your kitchen after an overwhelming night of wines and spirits.
I want to keep track of your daily routine to make you feel, at least, that there’s someone who cares, that you, darling, are not alone,
that you don’t have to beg for bandaids anymore because I am here.